She picked up her romance novel from the coffee table, sipping the cold, sweet juice directly from the large plastic bottle.
This was nice. Peaceful. It was the first time she had her own true space away from her parents.
And then the front door crashed open.
Vyom walked in, kicking the door shut loudly behind him. She could hear his earphones blasting extremely loud Punjabi rap music from fifteen feet away. His heavy backpack slammed onto the dining table with a loud thud.
Urvin closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and turned her head to glare at him with narrowed, annoyed eyes.
Vyom caught the movement in his periphery and froze. “Oh. Mainu laga teri class chaar baje tak hai aaj?” He watched her lips move angrily but heard absolutely nothing. Realizing his volume was at max, he pulled his earbuds out. “Kya kaha tune?”
“Maine kaha tu deaf hai, aur idiot vi,” she said with a deadpan face, going back to her book. “Professor ne bas syllabus ditta aur chhutti kar ditti. Jaldi aa gayi.”
“Nice,” he muttered, walking straight to the fridge. He opened it, groaned in disappointment, and looked back at her. He saw the bottle in her hand. “Oye, tu mera juice pee rahi hai?”
“Ispe tera naam nahi likha si.”
“Literally mera naam likha hai uspe.”
Urvin swallowed the last gulp of the sweet juice. She looked at the empty bottle, spinning it around. No name. Then, she looked at the table. The orange cap of the bottle was lying there, with ‘VYOM’ written in bold, black permanent marker.
“Oh. Achha yeh si oh. Huh!” She shrugged unapologetically, swinging her legs off the couch. Without another word, she walked into her room and shut the door firmly.
A minute later, just as Vyom was grumpily dropping onto the couch, the loud, depressing voice of Arijit Singh blasted through the thin wall. He rolled his eyes, grabbed his controller to turn on his Xbox, and connected his phone to the living room speakers. He cranked the volume up. The heavy, explosive gunfire from his Halo game mixed with the loud, thumping bass of a Diljit Dosanjh song, battling aggressively against Arijit Singh’s tyranny.
Arijit Singh sang louder.
Diljit’s bass dropped harder.
Suddenly, a massive, violent THUD-THUD-THUD echoed through the apartment. It wasn’t the ceiling. The Punjabi uncle who lived in the adjacent flat was furiously smashing his fist against the shared concrete wall.
“Oye khoteyo! Ki kalesh paaya hai tussi! Awaz ghatt karo apni!” the muffled, angry voice yelled from the other side.
Vyom cringed. He immediately muted the TV and paused his music. Reluctantly, he walked to his sister’s door and knocked loudly.
“KI HAI?!” she yelled from inside.
“I SURRENDER!” he shouted back.
The sad pop music inside was silenced mid-croon. The door opened slowly.
Urvin stood there, tapping her ankle-socked foot impatiently, raising her eyebrow in quiet defiance.
“Humein rules set karne paine ne,” he said from the hallway, trying to sound authoritative.
“Oh, sach vich, Sheldon?” she snarked back smoothly.
He ignored the Big Bang Theory reference, for now. “Haan. Roommate agreement. Quiet hours. Fridge shelves divide karenge. Safai ki duty. Sab kuch.”
